Of Dreams and Despair
by anfisa0907
Summary: Boromir has a second dream so he goes to Rivendell instead of Faramir. Story follows Boromir's journey to Rivendell, relationships with others, particularly Aragorn. Can he conquer his despair, which makes him so vulnerable to the Ring? Long slow multi-chapter fic, no romantic plot, no slash. Rated T for violence (battles; graphic) and one brief M/F sexual encounter (non-explicit).
1. Chapter 1

I don't own any major characters or plot points.

The phrase "your world will burn" is taken from The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug movie.

* * *

With a strangled gasp, Boromir awoke.

For a while he was completely still, listening carefully, not daring to move or breathe. All was quiet save the chirping of birds and the shuffling footsteps of servants outside. Slowly, he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings.

He was in his room in Minas Tirith, in the Citadel. Becoming slowly aware of his body, he realized that his hands were still clutching the bedsheets convulsively, his covers thrown to the floor, his teeth biting into his lower lip until it bled, leaving a metallic taste on his tongue. Every muscle was frozen in extreme tension.

A pale light shone through the window. Everything around him was just as it has been every morning when he woke up in his room for the past twenty-something years. Light through the window, green curtains, ornate carpet… He breathed a sigh of relief and let go of the bedsheets, allowing his muscles to relax.

He was in his room. He was alive, and apparently unharmed. _It was but a dream, then_ , he thought, a vision born of a mind inflamed by a glass or two of this new liquor the messengers from Rohan brought last night.

As he stood up, he swayed on his feet, head pounding, vision going dark for a moment. The room spun dizzily, but he steadied himself against the wall, and the dizziness passed.

 _Odd. I wasn't even properly tipsy last night. The Rohan soldier only brought one bottle to share among us all. There was simply not enough to drink myself into a hangover._

Boromir became aware of a certain unease that still sat in his heart, the tension and strain of the dream wrapped around his mind, feeding a growing dread somewhere deep inside him…

It was so long since he felt that kind of black, impenetrable dread and despair which came to him in this dream. Has he _ever_ felt that way in his life before? He was awake now, and still felt it creeping through him…

 _Enough. You're turning into a superstitious housewife, Boromir_ , he thought. _Stay the hell away from that witch's brew from Rohan, and all shall be well. What good can possibly come from dwelling on a few torn images from a liquor-induced nightmare?_

And yet…

 _He is stumbling around in pitch black, trying to find his footing. A cold wind pierces him to the core, his very soul laid bare to its onslaught. A light in the distance. A shrill, mirthless laugh. A man stumbling out of nowhere toward him… Then the man sways on his feet. Another high pitched laugh, "Your world will burn", a cold voice says… The man's dead body falls to the ground… he tries to come closer, to see who it is, surely it's someone he knows… Odd, he thinks, it almost looks like himself. Himself, or…_

"Morning, brother!" Faramir's voice spoke through the door. "If you don't recall, Father called a military council meeting during breakfast today. The bloody thing starts in ten minutes, so you better hurry if you don't want to risk his Lordship's wrath!" with a chuckle, Faramir turned away and his footsteps faded into the hall.

 _Truly, I'm a fool_ , thought Boromir. _Here I am, fretting about some vague dream, when I have a council meeting with Father to live through._

He threw on a tunic, trousers, and shoes. How he hated these council meetings. _Why must they always be at meal times?_ Nothing ever got fully resolved. Which, of course, resulted in a need to continue the discourse during a lunch meeting, followed by a dinner meeting. He never ceased to be amazed at how his father could manage to ruin all three meals in a day.

Turning his mind from the dream to more practical matters, Boromir walked out of his room and marched down to the dining hall, the painful pounding in his head echoing his footfalls every step of the way.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ah, Captain Boromir, you're here at last," Denethor said tersely. "Come, sit, we have much to discuss today".

Boromir glanced around the table. Besides his father, there was Faramir, Begerond, and other commanding captains and trusted soldiers of Gondor's army. In the center of the table there was fruit, bread, cheese, and pitcher of tea. Although Boromir normally enjoyed breakfast (any meal, really), right now his stomach felt painfully tight. It was as if a cold hand had gripped his insides and wouldn't let go. Boromir recognized it as fear. _What new folly is this_ , he chided himself. _What is there to fear? There are no battles to be fought today. You survived countless other strategy meetings… Unless there's something else…_

 _No!_ With a sharp shake of the head, Boromir pushed the meddlesome thoughts aside, and realized the whole company at the table was looking at him, waiting.

"Yes, I am here, my lord. Shall we start?"

"Very well. As you all know, Faramir is to leave for Rivendell in a fortnight" Denethor began, "Which leaves our defenses at Osgiliath and Ithilien to be discussed. Ilrendor, I believe you can take over the command of Ithilien, seeing as you're the senior soldier of that company. As for Osgiliath…"

Boromir listened to his father trail on, taking reports on the numbers of soldiers at each position and fortifications available. Nothing he hasn't heard from those same men the day before. Boromir was commanding captain of Gondor's army, they all reported to him anyway, so he could gather the information later if need be. His thoughts turned to Faramir and his Rivendell errand.

After all, it was a dream which had started the whole business. _Seek for the Sword that was Broken…_ Boromir remembered the night the dream came to him, the cold, clear words embedding themselves in his mind. If dreams are to be trusted, then what should he make of this night's macabre revelations? The man who fell dead in his dream could have been Faramir. The brothers were quite alike, but Boromir was broader in the shoulders. The man in the dream looked more like Faramir than himself, but there was little clarity to be found in the vague, smudged image. More sharply than any vision, his dream showed a sense of dread and impending doom, something inconceivably terrible happening. _Your world shall burn…_ That's terrible, all right, but what is he supposed to do with that?

With a frustrated sigh, Boromir leaned back in his chair. His head pounded even more fiercely than before.

"Captain Boromir?"

Boromir looked up at his father, startled.

"I was just saying that you shall continue to hold Osgiliath and monitor the enemy's movements from there. Do you concur?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good, good. Now, for our Southern borders, it seems to me that the Haradhrim are growing rather bold. It would do well to dispatch some more troops there…."

* * *

When the Breakfast Strategy Meeting was finally over, everyone started to leave. Only Boromir remained at the table, staring blankly ahead. Faramir looked intently at his brother. It was unusual for Boromir to be this distracted and pensive; after all, Boromir was first and foremost a man of action.

"Is all well with you, Boromir? I've never seen you think this much," Faramir attempted to lighten the mood. The brothers often teased each other, but never with anger or malice.

"Why shouldn't I be well? It is customary for me to think at least once a day, you know." Boromir replied in kind.

"You're rather disheveled, and you've eaten naught at breakfast today. I just thought…" Faramir's tone was serious now.

"It's kind of hard to eat when no one ever stops talking even for a second. Can we ever have a moment's peace? Or must every meal henceforth be ruined by talk of politics and battle tactics?"

Faramir sighed. Boromir complained thus after every military council meeting. "Then eat now. There's food left."

Boromir placed one hand on his stomach. It still ached somewhat, and the throbbing pain in his head wasn't helping.

"I'm afraid I'm not hungry just now. I'll eat during the impending dinner council meeting, how's that?" he flashed a half-smile at Faramir, stood up, and left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

The next week passed by in preparations for Faramir's departure and in military routine. There were companies of soldiers to re-arrange, troops to send out, supplies to account for. All of that kept Boromir busy enough that he could not afford to dwell on whatever premonitions and misgivings he had about Faramir's journey, and neither the prophetic dream about the Broken Sword, nor his own dream of death and destruction, came to Boromir again during the week. He thought he had forgotten all about it, until, after a long day of battle planning and strategizing, he finally got a chance to be alone for a while. As he sat in his room, willing his mind to relax enough that he could sleep, he realized that the shadow over his heart has not lifted.

The journey to Rivendell would be a dangerous one, to be sure. Even Faramir, with all his love of lore, did not know all that much about Imladris, save for that it was an elven realm far to the north. An elven realm… What _was_ Rivendell? A city, a village, a fortress? They did not even have detailed maps of lands that far north. Boromir very much wished that he could accompany his brother, but obviously Minas Tirith could not spare both its top army commanders at such a time. Originally Faramir planned to go alone, but Father insisted that he take at least two other soldiers with him, so Faramir chose two trusted men from his Ithilien company. That would have to do.

Boromir sighed and leaned back on his bed. _Tomorrow will be a hard day_ , he thought. _Like all days to come._ He knew that most likely he would not see an easy day until the end of the war. _Or his own end._ Truly, he was so used to the life of a soldier, living and breathing the art of war, that he almost forgot that no soldier could know if he will live to see the end of the next battle. And Faramir… Faramir might have respite from battles for a while, but Boromir somehow still felt that the search for Rivendell might prove to be even more perilous of an undertaking.

These thoughts raced through his troubled mind until he was exhausted enough to drift into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

 _The impenetrable darkness swallowed him up, a chill as cold as the breath of death itself piercing his soul as he ran from darkness into darkness, consumed by gut-wrenching fear and panic. A faint light shone ahead, and he saw a traveler on a horse riding across the horizon. Suddenly something flew out of the darkness. A knife, a sword, an arrow? He could not tell, but he saw the man fall from the horse to the ground. Again, he did not see the face, but somehow recognition blazed like fire in his mind. Faramir. Fire… He felt the fire grow inside himself and consume the scene, and that's when he heard it. A melodious laugh of a maiden's voice, yet cold and cruel nonetheless. Your world… shall burn... And then screaming, terrified, unrelenting, unstoppable screams of anguish and pain, screaming and screaming forever…_

When he opened his eyes, Boromir realized that the source of the screaming was none other than himself.

* * *

Faramir was jerked awake by loud screams. _It must be the middle of the night_ , he thought. Fear gripped his heart as he realized the screams were coming from his brother's room next door. Grabbing the short sword he kept in his bedroom just in case, Faramir rushed to investigate.

He found Boromir lying in his bed, bathed in sweat, eyes wide open in fear and anguish as he violently thrashed around in the aftermath of some dreadful nightmare. Gripping him by the shoulders, Faramir called:

"Boromir, it's me, Faramir! Calm yourself, please!"

Boromir's eyes focused on his brother's face as he tried to catch his breath. "Faramir… Thank the Valar…What..?" his voice trailed off as he fought for air.

"You were screaming. Are you well?"

"Aye. Just a dream." Boromir sighed and fell back against the pillows. "It was naught else but a dream." Faramir wasn't sure if it was him Boromir was talking to, or himself.

Faramir looked down at his brother with concern. He was still pale and breathing heavily.

"Perhaps you are with fever," Faramir laid a hand on Boromir's forehead, but Boromir waved him off.

"I am well, brother. Do not fuss so!" he grumbled. Then, more softly, he added, "I am sorry to have woken you, with the screaming and all. Go back to sleep."

* * *

The next morning, Boromir went about his duties rather absent-mindedly. The shadow on his heart and mind was darker than ever. The dream came again, and not only did it repeat itself, the bloody thing appeared to evolve. Now there was fire, and the man was on a horse. Boromir was convinced the dream showed Faramir's death. But from what? He could not make out the weapon that felled his brother, or the setting. He was on a horse. Was he on the road to Imladris, then? Did the dream speak of events to happen a month from now, a year from now, five years? The wretched vision was overwhelming in its intensity, yet utterly unhelpful in terms of understanding how to avoid the death and destruction it foretold.

 _Death and destruction._ Is that what awaited them all? How long would it be till the darkness spilled out of Mordor and overwhelmed all of Gondor?

Forcibly banishing such thoughts from his mind, Boromir went about his day. That train of thought was a dangerous one. One must take heart. Perhaps Faramir will find something helpful in Rivendell after all.

 _Unless he never reaches Rivendell._

Boromir rubbed his temples fiercely. This was going to drive him mad. _I must speak to Faramir tonight after dinner_ , he resolved.

However, as the day wore on and the memory of the dream continued to prey on his mind, Boromir's resolve in coming clean to Faramir wavered. What exactly was he going to tell his brother? "I see you dying in my dream, but I don't know how, or why, or what to do to stop it" ? He couldn't prevent Faramir from going to Rivendell. That was non-negotiable. Was it worth it to plant fear into his brother's heart over some vague nightmare that came only to himself and no one else?

 _Wait!_ The realization hit Boromir like a punch in the gut. _I've been a fool again. How do I know that only I received this other dream? Father or Faramir could have too, but didn't mention it lest they alarm us all._

Boromir decided to change his course. He would off-handedly ask Faramir and Father if they had any other significant dreams, and proceed from there, not mentioning his own unless the situation called for it.


	4. Chapter 4

So this chapter is longer than the others and contains a lot of introspection and my take on the relationship between Boromir and Faramir. The plot will definitely get moving in the next chapter though.

* * *

At dinner, Boromir could do no more than pick at his food. He has been obsessively contemplating the dream until he felt ill, and the impending conversation made him all the more nervous. Although he has not eaten since breakfast, Boromir found that he was not at all hungry.

Even though the brothers grew into adults many years ago, Denethor often insisted that when all three of them were in Minas Tirith, they ate breakfast and dinner together, something about family traditions and nobility. Boromir did not particularly care for these family meals, since they were often wrought with tension between Father and Faramir, or Father and himself. However, tonight Denethor was absent. Normally Boromir would have enjoyed spending time with his brother, but the weight on his mind led him to be uncharacteristically silent and morose. He nibbled on some bread while distractedly listening to Faramir talk about some book he's been reading.

"Out with it, brother. What troubles you so?"

Boromir looked up. _Well Faramir certainly didn't beat around the bush with that_. Smoothing his features into a neutral mask, he said, "I was just thinking about that dream we all had. About the Broken Sword and Isildur's Bane."

"Oh? What about it? Did it come to you again?" Faramir's excitement showed clearly on his face.

"Nay, nothing like that. It just seems to be a bit… odd, you know? Riding off into the wild chasing an enigmatic poem from a dream. It's an intriguing dream, I don't deny it, but is such a journey really worth it?"

Faramir looked somewhat offended. "Haven't we already talked about this? The dream came several times to Father and to me. Even to you once. I cannot comprehend how you still think that it means nothing."

Boromir sighed. "That's not what I meant to say. Of course it must mean something. It's just so awfully vague, you know? What I wanted to ask… Well, have you perhaps had any other dreams? With more information in them, perhaps, or instructions?"

"Instructions? Brother, you amuse me!" Faramir began to laugh. "Since when do the Valar provide a nice set of instructions to accompany their revelations to Men?"

"Well now would be a good time to start! No matter. I simply wondered if you had any other dreams. Premonitions, warnings, prophesies…you know, that sort of thing."

"No, I have not. Only that same dream as before." Suddenly Faramir's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why? Have you? That nightmare you had last night, when you nearly roused half the city with your bellowing… What did you see?"

Boromir felt a wave of cold twist inside him; he was not prepared for so direct a question. _Lie! Now or never!_ At last he uttered "Oh, that… I can't even fully recall what I dreamt, probably Osgiliath or some battle. I dream of it often, swimming the river…"

Which was true enough, in a way. Boromir was indeed often assailed by the memory of that horror. The Nazgul gaining on them, bounding across the bridge, the cold dread tugging at his heart… _Not unlike the dread and despair he felt in those dreams of his_ …

Boromir looked at Faramir, who nodded sympathetically. _He bought it._ Boromir startled inwardly at his thoughts. It was as if he felt some kind of perverse delight in tricking his brother. Despite the great love and support between them, there was always an inevitable portion of sibling rivalry. As they grew and fell into their respective roles, the rivalry diminished, but flare-ups still occurred.

As odd as it may be, through the years, Boromir, the heir to the ruling seat of Gondor, the Steward's favorite son, now the Captain-General of the army, had resented Faramir. For he saw what their Father somehow could not – that Faramir was far more perceptive and understanding than Boromir could ever hope to be. Even when Faramir was a boy, he showed a wisdom beyond his years, and that both impressed and irked Boromir. He was the older, he should also be the wiser. He knew that such petty jealousy was unbecoming of a Captain-General, but he was not so cowardly as to lie to himself and deny its existence. Even with this dream about the Broken Sword – it came multiple times to Faramir and Father, but to Boromir it came last, and only once. It was as if the Valar decided to tag him on as an afterthought, like one would appease a petulant child so he won't feel left out. Leave the wise to the thinking, they said, and you stick to the fighting.

Boromir could still plainly recall the day when it all became painfully clear to him. He was fourteen summers old, and had come home, weary after a day full of sword-practice and weapons training, only to find a nine-year-old Faramir eagerly immersed in a history book. The boy's eyes shone as he read tales of ancient kings, their deeds (noble and otherwise), the origins and lore of Gondor. _Odd,_ thought Boromir then. _Ever since I was six and able to hold a small wooden sword, Father carefully chose the best sword-masters to teach me, making sure they trained me dawn to dusk. Never was I allowed to spend a day lounging in a chair reading whatever I please._ Of course, as the heir to the Stewardship, Denethor made sure that Boromir learned enough to participate in councils and state affairs, but even then, his scholarly lessons revolved around things like navigation and battle tactics. And as he was watching Faramir flip the pages, it hit him: he, Boromir, was designed to become a leader of armies, to lead men to their deaths in battle, valiant, brave, honorable deaths… but nothing more. No matter how high a rank he would achieve, when all was said and done, his destiny and purpose was to go to battle and die for Gondor, at the end of an orc's arrow or a Southron's sword. Always brave, always noble, always honorable, never less, but that was it. It was then that Boromir's faith in his father wavered for the first time. _He is raising me like a calf for slaughter_ … In his heart Boromir knew he did Father an injustice, but a sense of betrayal overwhelmed reason. That night, in a desperate attempt to change something, he snuck down to the library, brushed off the dusty tomes, and attempted to read through whatever it was that his nine year old brother found so interesting. Fifteen minutes later, he finally gathered the courage to admit to himself that he was tragically bored ere he could finish a full page. _If a soldier is what I am to be, then I will be the best soldier Gondor has ever seen,_ he resolved, and the next day Boromir threw himself into weapons training like never before, reveling in that terrible art of war and battle and death, until it consumed all his doubts and insecurities.

Not all, as it turned out. Sitting here across from Faramir, lying through his teeth, Boromir wistfully imagined what it would be like if the Rivendell quest had been his. He could show his wise and learned brother that he, Borormir, was good for more than slaying orcs and directing armies. He would go to Imladris, partake of the wisdom of the Firstborn, learn of the meaning of the dream, of Gondor's hope and salvation, and, enlightened, he would fly back to Gondor bearing the news.

Suddenly disgusted with himself, Boromir slammed his cup of wine down on the table, quelling a rising tide of nausea. _How pathetic._ Jealousy was an ugly, monstrous emotion, capable of driving men to ignoble acts. This was _Faramir_ , whom he has sworn, on his mother's deathbed, to love and protect. How dare he usurp such an important mission from his brother out of spite?

"Boromir?"

"Eh?"

"Boromir, you spilled your wine." Faramir's deep and concerned eyes stared into him from across the table.

Unable to bear that gaze just right now, Boromir turned away and dabbed at the wine puddle with a cloth. Red stains appeared on the white napkin. _So much like blood._

"I ask you one last time, brother. Is all well with you?"

Anger flared in Boromir's chest once more as he looked at his brother. Who was Faramir to question him and take him to task like he was some erring young foot-soldier?

"Aye, well enough. I'm simply weary from the interrogation. Now if you'll excuse me," Boromir stood up, and, without finishing his sentence, left Faramir sitting alone at the dinner table, next to the untouched food.

* * *

As soon as he was in his room, Boromir allowed his proud shoulders to slump as he slid to the floor and put his face in his hands. He was angry, angry with Faramir, with Father, with those thrice-accursed dreams of his, and above all, angry with himself.

He winced as a hazy memory came to him… Faramir was no more than two or three, always crying, asking Boromir to play with him. At last Boromir told him to sod off in the harshest language a seven year old could know. _Remember, Boromir, he is your little brother. Right now he is weaker and smaller than you, and even when he won't be, you must love, cherish, and protect him. You may very well be the only one who can._ At the time he didn't understand his mother's hint at the fact that she might not be there for Faramir, but he learned his lesson.

To love and protect… And yet, if his nocturnal revelations were to be heeded, Faramir was about to ride off to his demise, or some unfathomable fate worse than death.

 _Oh, Mother_ , Boromir whispered into the dark, _I know not what to do._ He realized then, that the biggest grudge he held was against her, for leaving so soon, for making him face this decision alone in this dark room.

Perhaps Faramir would hate him after this. Perhaps he would hate himself. But Faramir could only hate him if Faramir was alive. Better to be hated by a living brother, than to have no brother at all.

Boromir stood up, drew a long shuddering breath and wiped his face. Then, he quietly slipped through the door, directing his footsteps towards Denethor's study.


	5. Chapter 5

"What is the meaning of this?" Faramir's voice was calm but from the apparent tension in his face and stance it was obvious he was angry, and most of all hurt. "My lord, I do not understand. I was to depart for Rivendell in a few days. What has changed?"

"Boromir approached me last night. He asked that he be the one to go look for Imladris. I was reluctant to grant his request, seeing as the Captain-General is perhaps the most indispensable person in Minas Tirith right now, but he presented some fairly compelling arguments." Denethor said.

"And what would those arguments be?" Faramir did his best to keep the edge out of his voice. If his father sensed even a note of disrespect he would answer nothing.

"Boromir is the older, and by far the hardier. He has more combat training. As he pointed out correctly, this journey holds unknown and unfamiliar dangers, while its success is crucial to Gondor. It is of utmost importance that whoever goes not only reaches Rivendell but also makes it back."

Faramir glanced up at his brother. Boromir stood very still, not looking at either Denethor or Faramir but staring blindly ahead. The smug smile that Faramir expected to find on his face, however, was not there. Instead, Boromir was rather pale with just a tint of green, his lips pressed into a thin line, shadows under his eyes, his expression inscrutable.

"There are dangers in this quest that do not involve swords and daggers. The dream came to me thrice, after all." Faramir said quietly, hoping his point would be clear enough.

"Faramir, the decision is final. In any case, it is too late to change it back. I do not wish to discuss this further." Then Denethor added impatiently, "Now leave me, both of you. I have to receive messengers from Rohan. You are always at liberty to sort this out amongst yourselves, if you so wish."

Silently, Boromir nodded and quickly walked out into the hallway. But Faramir was quicker. As soon as the door of the hall closed behind them, Faramir blocked his brother's path. He was used to Father's dismissive treatment, but he would not let Boromir get away with that.

Boromir tried to push past him, but Faramir blocked him once again. A part of him laughed at the absurdity of this child-like behavior, but there was no one to see it, and he wanted his answers.

"What is the meaning of this?" He asked once more, looking Boromir straight in the eye. Instead of answering, Boromir just clenched his jaw even tighter and bowed his head, staring at the floor.

This obstinate silence from his brother infuriated Faramir. He also became aware of a strange reversal of roles. They rarely fought, but when they did, Boromir was the one to rage and shout and slam doors while Faramir sulked in silence.

Right now, though, silence was getting him nowhere. Boromir continued to stare at the floor like a puppet with the strings cut. "If you wanted this quest so badly, you could have told me earlier. Instead, you go to Father behind my back, like a thief in the night, and you can't even be bothered to explain yourself!"

It was working. The insult broke through Boromir's impassive façade and he lifted his gaze to meet Faramir's.

"I am no thief, and I have nothing more to say. This will be an arduous and perilous journey and it is best that I undertake it."

"Arduous and perilous? And you think Ithilien and Osgiliath are any less so? Or do you think so little of my skill…"

Boromir interrupted his tirade. "Faramir, you are an exceedingly capable Captain. You will manage the armies of Gondor while I am away. I will say no more of this." his tone was final.

Faramir backed up a few steps and took a long look at his brother, who stood there like a pillar of stone, impervious and insensitive to the hurt he was causing. Something was not right here, he knew not what exactly, but this was not the kind, caring brother he knew his whole life.

"You've become just like Father" Faramir spat. Then he spun on his heel and turned away, walking swiftly down the hall without looking back.

Boromir knew not how long he stood in the hallway after Faramir left. At last, feeling seemed to return to his limbs and he straightened out and slowly began to walk toward his chambers. Faramir's last remark echoed in his ears. There it all was. The hate, the anger, the hurt and resentment. He had expected as much, but now that it was here he was not so sure he could bear it.

* * *

Boromir was startled to find himself at the door of his room, having forgotten how he got there. Weary and sick, he laid down on the bed, wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would relieve him of the guilt and doubt at least for a few hours. But sleep would not come.

He regretted how bluntly he had dismissed Faramir's questions, but if he was not going to tell the truth, it was better to tell nothing at all. _Tell the truth_ … what was the truth? Boromir clung to that dream like to a lifeline, validating his motives and justifying is actions. However, the more he thought about it, the less sense it made. The dream could have shown Faramir's death in a battle at Ithilien, for example. In that case, he has just condemned his brother to death.

That thought was too much to bear. The room was suddenly so very small, hot, and stifling, there was not enough air, his head spun… He had to get out.

Boromir practically ran from the room and wandered outside. A little better. He wandered through the city, not looking where he was going, until he made it to the outskirts of the last circle. There, he was finally free of observant eyes. He looked out to the empty lands that stretched forth along the road…

An idea occurred to him, breaking his spiraling thoughts. If he was to actually succeed, he had to prepare for the journey. He would need to find an approximate road he could take, plan where he would find food and shelter… Now that he had something to do, the weight on his heart became marginally lighter. _What is done is done. No use wallowing in guilt and self-pity when I haven't even started planning my journey._ It was getting dark, so Boromir turned and walked back towards the Citadel. He would spend the night in the library, studying every single bit of information about Imladris he could find, until his eyes bled. There was no time to waste.


	6. Chapter 6

The next two days, Boromir walked about like a man who had been drowned and then his body marginally revived, but his mind left to shadow. Heavy, unbearable silence hung between himself and Faramir. The nights and days blended together into one maddening torture. Now, he almost craved that blasted dream, he longed for it to show him what he wanted to see to assure himself he had been right, but the dream did not come again. _The thing is mocking me, it's hiding just to spite me. I've been played for a fool._ With a bitter laugh, he realized he has been thinking of a dream as if it were a living thing, a thing possessed of emotions and even intellect. As another bleak dawn met him in the library, he felt he surely must have passed beyond the circles of reality into some dark universe devoid of all light and hope. _I'm going mad… Nay, I'm already mad._

This was the last day. Tomorrow he was to leave for Rivendell. Everything was ready, he had his sketchy maps, hazy plans, some provisions and a coin-purse, plus a change of clothes. Besides that, and his weapons which he carried on his person, he could bring nothing more. He insisted he was to go alone, and his father reluctantly agreed, although he was rather displeased.

Boromir could do nothing at all to shake his misery. Faramir still avoided him. This was going to be his last day in Minas Tirith for a long time, perhaps even for all eternity for all he knew, and Boromir really did not want to spend it in this void of dread.

 _If I'm to be mad, there are far merrier paths to madness_. Just for today, he wanted to forget that he had broken down the relationship between him and his brother, that he betrayed Faramir perhaps unto death, that he might not see him again and remain forever hated by the only living person who had been truly close to him.

With grim determination, he sauntered down to the kitchen. It was empty save for a cleaning-maid.

"My Lord, is there anything I can help you with?"

"Yes, actually. Where is that swill from Rohan?"

"Pardon?"

"That liquor the messengers bring. Have we any left?"

"Yes, my lord, two bottles, right here. Should I…"

"You may go. I think I have everything I need."

Boromir opened the first bottle. He took a sniff. _Vile stuff._ Then, in a long gulp, the drained half the bottle.

He winced as the fiery liquid hit his empty stomach. Within minutes, his head swam and his hands shook, warmth flooding his limbs. But the numbing of the spirit, when he ceased to think or to care, evaded him. His mind may have been dulled, but his soul felt even more vulnerable to the dream's predations. _Faramir will never forgive me, and I cannot even ask it of him. It was act of selfish betrayal and I will continue to pay for it as long as I live._

With an angry growl, he grabbed the bottle again. No matter. He would drink himself senseless if he had to, just to make that voice shut up for a moment. He slammed the empty bottle on the table.

Suddenly feeling in need of air, he stumbled out to the balcony. The liquor was all hitting his blood at once. He reached the parapet of the balcony not a moment too soon, since just then his legs gave out and he lowered himself to the floor. His back against the parapet, breathing the cool night air, he felt almost at peace… Until some shadow on the far end of the balcony suddenly began moving toward him. He was not alone.

* * *

Faramir had stood on the balcony for hours gathering his thoughts, but like spiders, they crawled inside his head. Boromir was to leave tomorrow. Although he was still hurt, observing his brother these last few days, he became more and more convinced Boromir was hiding something. Boromir ate little and slept even less, skulking about the library at night and wandering aimlessly during the day. This was so unlike his active, decisive brother, that concern eventually displaced anger.

Faramir's mind raced through the possibilities. His brother began acting strangely two weeks before Faramir would have left for Rivendell. Has Boromir committed some unseemly deed and was using the quest to flee Father's wrath? What could he have done? He desperately wanted to sort things out before Boromir left, but Faramir did not even know how to approach that shadow that had once been his brother.

As it turned out, the shadow came to him. Faramir heard a noise behind him, and saw a figure heavily fall against the parapet. Boromir. As Faramir approached, the strong scent of some liquor caught his attention. What fresh idiocy was this?

"Who… who goes there?" The figure slurred and hiccupped.

"Boromir?"

"Far'mir? Tis you?"

"Aye, brother. Are you drunk?"

"Just a little" Boromir gave a stupid laugh and then groaned, rubbing his temples.

"I... I can see that." Faramir said slowly. Perhaps if he played his cards right he could use his brother's drunken state. He sat down next to Boromir.

"What possessed you to do this?" He said with a chuckle.

"To do what, exactly?"

"Well, why don't we start with the fact that you can't stand? Brother, I haven't seen you drown your sorrows like this since you were seventeen and enamoured with Ellanaera."

"Ah…You speak the truth. I haven't felt this thoroughly wretched since the day she told me I'm… what was it? Oh right, that I'm 'mind-numbingly tedious' because all I talk of is swords and battles."

"That not a very nice thing to say," Faramir sighed. At least Boromir was opening up. He recognized his brother again.

"She can be forgiven for that, seeing as she said it was the fifth time I told her that particular war story. Although by my reckoning, it was only the third," Boromir chuckled.

"Was… Was there anyone after Ellanaera?" Faramir asked carefully.

"Nay. Well, there were a couple times I took a willing serving-maid to my bed for a night's comfort," Boromir laughed and winked at Faramir. "It was good comfort for _both_ of us, indeed, I tell you. But no, I haven't actually courted a woman. What was that thing written in one of your poetry books? _These times of woe leave us no time to woo._ "

"Since when do you read poetry?"

"I don't. I just read a little once, to impress Ellanaera… For all the good that did."

Faramir decided to broach the main subject. "Well, if you're not drowning a dead romance, then what? Tis not your way, to drink alone at night."

Boromir sighed and his eyes went out of focus. Just when Faramir was beginning to think that he had passed out, Boromir said very quietly, his voice barely a whisper, "Are you certain you really want to know?"

"Yes, I do." Faramir prepared himself for whatever was going to come next. Or was his brother simply being dramatic?

"This Rivendell business. It's turning out all wrong."

Faramir frowned. "How do you mean?"

Boromir did not answer immediately. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his face acquiring that same pained and drawn expression. At last, he began to speak. "What I did… At the time, it seemed to me that there was no other way." He broke off, as if reconsidering. "I know you deserve an explanation of such an act, and I wish I could provide one, but I know not myself anymore. I had a feeling… a premonition born of a dream I had that… that some evil was going to come to you on this journey. Acting on impulse, I put myself forward for this quest, a rash act if I ever did one." Boromir paused and closed his eyes again. Faramir said nothing. "I know this has hurt you. I felt that it was necessary at the time. Perchance I was wrong." He chuckled darkly. "If I wasn't soused to the gills, you would not be talking to me right now." Before Faramir could say anything, he continued, "But it is done now. For good or for ill, I must go tomorrow. It probably matters little, in the end. Look around, brother. Evil does not sleep, it encompasses us and surrounds us. Who knows what the devil I will find in Rivendell? As like as not, death and destruction awaits." Boromir chocked out the last few words with what sounded like a sob.

Faramir frowned again. He knew Boromir to be a practical man, who was brave enough to face the reality of a grim situation without false hopes, but this… This ran deeper. Despair seemed to have taken a firm hold in his brother's soul. Of course, it could be just the drink talking. Boromir's eyes were closed, his head fell forward, and his arms hung limply by his sides.

"No more of that, brother. Let's get you to bed. You have an early start tomorrow."

Boromir grunted and tried to get up, but failed. With a jolt, Faramir managed to haul him into a standing position, which was no easy task, with Boromir being a lot heavier. Suddenly, Boromir gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth. Realizing what was about to happen, Faramir spun him around in one quick motion and leaned him over the parapet.

Boromir vomited over and over again even after there was nothing left. All Faramir could do was rub his back and whisper soothing words. At last, it was over, and Boromir crumpled to the floor, pale and shaking.

"Oh, brother, what in the world have you been drinking?" Faramir helped him sit up.

"Liquor… from Rohan… Full bottle of that horrid swill…" Boromir gasped out weakly. Faramir nodded sympathetically. That made a lot of sense, now. Rohan liquor was _not_ a drink to be abused.

"Do you think you can try standing up again? We must get you to your room."

"Yes, I feel better now."

After some stumbling in the dark, Faramir finally put his brother down on his bed. "I'm leaving a pitcher of water by your bed. Morning will be hard on you."

"That it will… Faramir… Thank you." Boromir whispered. "And… I'm sorry."

"No matter. Everyone gets sick from liquor sometimes." But Faramir knew that wasn't what he meant.


	7. Chapter 7

Morning was, indeed, very hard. Boromir was roused by his brother at the crack of dawn. His head pounded and he was sick again within a few minutes of getting up. He hazily remembered telling Faramir more than he intended, but didn't remember exactly what he had said… However, the fact that his brother was here, helping him gather his possessions for the trip, meant that he must not have said anything too horrible.

Faramir went to fetch something, and Boromir was left alone in his room for a moment. Everything was ready, all that was left to do was get on his horse and go. For the first few days of traveling, his road was pretty obvious. Boromir looked around his room. _When, if ever, will I return here again?_

Faramir walked in, carrying a cup. "I imagined you wouldn't be able to stomach any breakfast, but this should help with the headache. Riding will be hell in your present condition."

The draught tasted rather bitter, but it did bring some relief. Now, it was time to go. Boromir brought his horse out to the gate, Faramir walking along silently. The city still slept. Only one lonely guard saluted them, and turned away. Boromir got up on the horse and turned to face his brother. In the previous days, he had thought of so many things he wanted to say before he left, but now nothing seemed right. Still, he had to try.

"Faramir… If… if I do not return…" _Oh Valar, why was this so hard? I'm just making it worse_. Boromir closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. Suddenly, he felt strong arms around his shoulders. He opened his eyes and pulled his brother into a hug. At last, Boromir said, "Look… whatever may come of this, just know… know that I meant no harm."

Faramir sighed. "I know, brother. Now, off with you, and take care!"

Boromir turned his horse and rode off down the road. He couldn't bear to look back.

* * *

Night was falling when he finally decided to stop. He pulled out the map and used the last light of the day to mark off the place. The skies were clear, so he did not bother with his makeshift tent – which was really more of a tarp which could be held up on two sticks. Of course, his father could have provided him with more elaborate supplies, but both of them knew it was probably best to travel light. However, he insisted on dressing himself befitting of an heir of Gondor. It was not his way to sneak about like a thief it he night, so he wore his fur cloak and proudly displayed the Horn.

Boromir wasn't too happy with the barren and vacant land surrounding the road: there was no natural shelter to take advantage of. It would not do for him to lie by the roadside like a drunken vagrant. Some distance off the road, however, the land was strewn with rather large boulders. He ventured there, and found that a few large rocks formed a sort of half-circle, shielding him from the wind. This was the best he will find tonight.

Boromir rummaged around in his pack for a piece of bread. He understood the necessity of sustaining oneself throughout the journey, although he didn't feel particularly hungry, as his stomach was still not fully recovered from last night's drinking binge.

When he ate as much as he dared, it was time to sleep. He found a more or less even patch of ground, tethered his horse the best he could, and willed himself to calm his mind. Just when he thought he will never be able to fall asleep tonight, a wave of fatigue overtook him.

When he opened his eyes again, a cold grey morning met his gaze. It was time to go on.


	8. Chapter 8

The next week passed in similar fashion. Riding through bare dreary lands, scant dry meals, constant search for shelter and… loneliness. The monotony began to wear on his mind. Boromir never dealt with boredom particularly well. The battles, slaying ocs, men cheering, banners flying… this, however, was completely different. With nothing to distract him but the barren landscape ahead, his mind began to wander.

Boromir felt his usual confidence waver. In certain moments, the monumental importance of his mission weighed on his heart almost to the point of pain. _Gondor's last hope. In Rivendell._ It all rested on him and him alone.

He often mused on what that last hope was supposed to be. _The sword that was broken_ … The only thing that made sense was that the elves has some kind of great and powerful weapon in Rivendell, and this weapon was going to defeat all the armies of Mordor. He could not imagine what in the world such a thing could be, and he drove himself mad for days on end imagining the possibilities.

He had yet another source of doubt, however. His other dream, the dream of dread and fire, continued to haunt him. It had not repeated itself, and yet Boromir still felt that there was some unknown danger awaiting him. As if something lurked in the shadows at night and in the mist during day. _First Captain of Gondor, afraid of clouds and ghosts! I can take a dozen Wild Men or orcs in a fight._

Another voice spoke within him. _There are perils beyond attacks of robbers and orcs. That which cannot be slain by the sword. Perils you know nothing of_. Indeed, will-power was quite useless against the melancholy creeping up on the periphery. He woke up to the same grey morning each and every day. At night, he would wake up with a jolt and lie awake in the darkness, unable to sleep, bathed in sweat, heart beating so fast he thought it might explode, feeling like some unseen danger lurked close by. But every time he went to investigate, there was nothing. How many days was he on the road now? He was losing count, and sometimes it felt like he was losing his sanity.

 _Whatever I find in Rivendell, it better be good._


	9. Chapter 9

After a month and a half on the road, Boromir had to admit to himself that he was tiring. As days stretched into weeks and merged together into a blur of grey skies and gloomy thoughts, a heaviness permanently settled in his chest. Doubt crept in at sunset as he looked on the dying light of day. He knew that leagues and leagues behind him, the soldiers of Gondor fought a losing battle. Minas Tirith stood, yes, but their army shrank by the day, their defenses weakened, and their front retreated further and further back. _Isildur's Bane. Broken Sword. Salvation for Gondor._

He passed by Edoras a while ago, but chose not to make himself known there. While Eomer was his good friend, a nagging feeling held Boromir back. He felt that divulging the reason for his journey would be unwise, and had he encountered Eomer, he would not be able to keep the secret from him. So he went on past Edoras and through the Gap of Rohan.

Meanwhile, his food supplies were starting to run low. They, however, would last another two weeks. He ate little these days, and when he did, it was out of habit rather than hunger. One day he realized that he has forgotten to eat for the past three meal-times. The feeling was often accompanied by a heaviness in his chest, until he lost all interest in food.

 _Two weeks. I can make it to Tharbad on what I have, and when I'm there I can rest and replenish my supplies._ He gave his horse a nudge galloped with newfound determination down the road.

A week later, the rains started. At first he hoped it would stop after a day or two, so he kept going, wrapping his cloak tightly about him and soldiering on, as he did not wish to lose any time.

Until, one day, he found himself in an open rocky plain, with not a tree in sight, and the sky ahead quickly darkening. The thunderstorm rolled in. Within minutes, he was completely drenched. Soon, the rain became a secondary concern. He saw a flash of lighting strike closer to him than before. The storm was moving his way. With a sudden crack, lighting stroke a boulder not far in the distance. With horror he watched the shattered rock fall apart and the smoke sizzled away in the rain.

 _Of course. Lightning strikes the highest point._

There was no shelter except a few boulders next to the road. But remembering the rock shattered by lightning, he figured sitting next to a boulder was not the best idea. He galloped off the road, dismounted, and laid down on the ground. "Lie down, now, come on", he urged his horse, and the frightened animal eventually complied.

However, by virtue of not hiding under a taller object, he had to leave himself completely open to the rain. Soon, the ground beneath him became a puddle. Boromir closed his eyes, and moved closer to his horse. _Cold. So cold_. His horse nuzzled him and Boromir patted the animal's neck. They will have to wait it out.

The thunderstorm passed within twenty minutes, but the damage was done. Both he and his horse were wet, cold, and tired. Continuing on was a daunting prospect. However, he really did not have a choice in the matter: he needed to find shelter, warmth, and hot food, and he did not have any hope of finding them until he reached Tharbad.

And so they plodded on. At first he wanted to stop and build a fire to dry his things, but the constant drizzle would not allow that. The light rain continued and the sky was dark and grey as far as Boromir could see. The only way was forward. _At least things can get no worse than this_ , he thought with a humorless chuckle, instantly regretting it. It seemed that any time he allowed himself to hope, fate was determined to extinguish it and prove him wrong.

And wrong he was. The cold crept from his hands and feet closer to his heart. Has he ever felt this cold? Gripping the reins with his numb hands, and nudged the horse on.

Soon, a sick unhealthy heat rose from his stomach and up to his throat, spreading to his head. It brought no comfort. The hot fire in his chest turned into a cold fire in his hands and legs, so every movement required enormous effort. Boromir knew the feeling well enough. _I must be with fever_ , he thought, but as his head burned hotter he ceased to care. Pulling his cloak tighter around himself, he leaned forward on his horse and closed his eyes.

He cared not for Rivendell, or the quest, or the Broken Sword. What use was it anyway? He has seen the power of Mordor. _There is evil there that does not sleep._ What weapon could avail them?

Well, evil may not sleep, but he needed to. A wink of sleep, and tomorrow he would go on. He felt a flood rising within him, sweeping him away, his hands barely felt the reins of his horse, a sweet fatigue seeped through every muscle in his body and he could no longer resist. _Give in_ , a cold melodious voice whispered. And against this voice, he was powerless.

Boromir let go.


	10. Chapter 10

I know that Tharbad is supposed to be a ruined city but I imagined it as more of a dilapidated village that's barely holding on.

Rinel's name is meant to be pronounced "Ree-NEL" kind of like a French person would say it.

* * *

 _He was choking on water, gagging, coughing, trying to catch air as he broke the surface. Swim! For the love of God, Faramir, SWIM! Faramir was flailing in the water nearby. The winged Nazgul was closing in above them and at any moment it could all be over…_

 _A cold high-pitched screech. The call of the Ringwraiths. Somehow, he heard it even under water. He had to re-surface, he had to swim but the screech seemed to paralyze his limbs, filling them with lead and his chest with ice. Cold dread shrouded his heart. He was willing to do anything, anything at all, to get away from the dreadful noise. The water was closing over his head and he welcomed it._

 _Then there was fire. From behind a curtain of flames he saw Faramir and Father, looking at him, pleading him to save them and he reached through the curtain to pull them out and…_

 _He burned. Minas Tirith burned. The world burned._

 _Suddenly he was drowning again. His mouth filled with water against his will as he sank deeper and deeper…_

* * *

"Not like that, Rinel, you'll choke him!"

"How else do you give water to an unconscious person?"

"Watch here. He needs to swallow it. Hold his head."

Elona took the cup, placing it to the man's mouth. She titled the cup very slowly and poured a few sips worth of water inside. The man shuddered at first but accepted the water and even seemed to reach for more. She thought for a moment that he might actually wake, but the man suddenly went limp and drifted back into oblivion.

The near-dead traveler they found on the road four days ago has still not woken even once. He was limp and cold but the cold was quickly replaced with a raging fever. There he lay, muttering something delusional for the first few days, crying out in fever-dreams. But this last day he has been limp and silent. Sometimes they were able to get him so swallow some water to keep him alive, but half the time he would retch it back up, so she and Rinel took turns watching at his bedside night and day, to make sure to lift him up to a sitting position if he started to vomit.

Rinel reached down and felt the man's forehead.

"He burns hotter than ever. I fear this fever will not break before it kills him." Elona went to see for herself. Indeed, the fever was dangerously high.

"Alright, Rinel. Fetch some linens and cold water. Let's cool him down."

* * *

The first thing Boromir felt when he awoke was a monstrous thirst. He slowly opened his eyes. Dim daylight fell through a dirty window. He was in a small, simple room. A woman was sitting in a chair next to his bed, knitting.

Boromir strove to speak but his throat was dry and his tongue wouldn't move. A weak gasp came out.

The woman turned, startled. Seeing him awake, she quickly took a cup off the table, lifted his head put the cup to his lips. Boromir felt more grateful for the water in that moment than anything else. Greedily, he gulped it down, spilling all over the front of his shirt, so fast that he almost drank the cup dry before she took it away from him.

"No, sir, not so fast. You'll make yourself ill again, drinking so much at once. You can have more later, once this settles."

Boromir meant to say "Where am I, who are you, and how did I get here?" but all he managed was "What… Where…?" before he was cut off by a violent coughing fit.

The kindly woman waited patiently for him to catch his breath.

"You are in Tharbad. Tis was four days ago that me and my brother found you by the road a few leagues south. Lying face down you were, and everything. At first we feared you dead. You were in a fever and raving, and you're only awake now because we brought the fever down with cold water. Oh, we have your bundles and everything we could find of your possessions here in a corner, fear not."

Boromir sat quietly, processing. So he was in Tharbad. He did not remember lying in dirt by the road, so he must have been unconscious already. _But how… I must have fallen off the horse_.

The thought hit him like lightning. His horse!

"What of my horse? Do you have him as well?" he rasped.

The woman looked surprised. "Nay, sir, there was no horse. Perhaps he wandered off. After all we do not know how long you were lying senseless."

Boromir closed his eyes. Without a horse, his journey would be slowed down much, and if he judged the distance correctly it will take months to reach Imladris. _Well, I better get going_ , he laughed inwardly.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality, Madam. For saving my life" Boromir said with all the cultured politeness of the Stewards, "But I really must get going on my journey. I have much to travel." He moved to stand. The ground disappeared from under his feet and yellow spots swam before his eyes. He felt hands on his back, lowering him onto the bed.

"Are ye mad, sir? Really! Or perhaps you hit your head too when you fell from your horse? You are very ill and you must stay in bed. I didn't tend you for the last couple days only to have you die due to your own foolishness!"

Then, more softly, she added, "Your fever didn't break, we lowered it for a time but it may yet return. You mustn't leave until it is certain the fever isn't coming back."

Boromir nodded. "Thank you…"

"Elona. My name is Elona, and my brother is Rinel. Now that I have told you where you are, will you tell us your name, and how you came to such perils?"

Boromir sighed and began to speak but another coughing fit cut him off. Elona rushed to pour him more water. When it was over, Boromir dropped back to the pillows, exhausted, blinking tears from his eyes.

"There, sir. Lie back and rest now, you are ill and weary. There will be more time for talk later. It don't matter where you are from, for the people of Tharbad do not refuse a stranger in need." Elona said softly and left the room, leaving him to his rest.

* * *

In the evening, Elona brought him a bowl of soup, and Boromir ate a little, although soon after he began to feel queasy as his head burned again and coughs painfully tore his lungs, while his hands and feet were ice-cold. He wasn't sure how long he lay there shaking under the blankets when Elona came back in. Seeing his condition she laid a hand on his brow and sighed.

"It is as we feared. Your fever is back. Perhaps this time it will finally break. How do you feel?"

"Feverish, but not too bad. Yet, anyway," Boromir sighed grimly. It could not be denied that he felt steadily worse since he woke up this morning. "But soon I may slip back into the dreams."

"We will care well for you, sir, fear not. You will be well soon enough" but the doubt in Elona's voice belied her reassuring words.

Boromir had survived many a fever in his life but everything about this wretched journey seemed to be against him. Never one to hide from harsh realities, he considered the possibility.

"If I do not wake…"

Elona made a vehement gesture. "Nay, sir, say not such things! Tis not good to let the mind wander in such ways." She wanted to leave before he could say more, but the man's fevered gaze held her.

"I'm afraid I have seen too much to deny the possibility of death," he let out a dark chuckle. "I've seen it take man and child alike," taking a fresh breath, he continued, "My name is Boromir and I hail from the land of Gondor, far down to the South. My name is well known in Rohan, so if this be my end, it will suffice to send word to Edoras with some traveler or a messenger. The King of Rohan will inform my father of my fate. If it comes to pass, I have but one message for my father and brother: I have tried and I have failed, and for that I am sorry."

He took a few more rasping breaths and went on, "As for my things, use them if you wish. Except for the Horn. The Horn must be returned to Gondor. Everything else, use or bury with me," he stopped and then frowned up at her, "Or do you do burnings here? I know not the funeral customs of your land."

Dismayed, she replied flatly, "No burnings. We bury the dead."

He sighed again and shook his head. "It matters not. I thank you for everything," he rasped and his eyes lost focus. Elona could do no more than whisper soothing words and wipe his brow with a moist rag as a fevered sleep took him.


	11. Chapter 11

In truth, Elona did not know how she could fulfill the man's request if he died. There has been no travelers to Tharbad in years, no messengers passed through, and their own people kept to themselves and did not venture out to faraway lands. Elona's father told her that in the days of her grandfather, Tharbad traded with the land of Rohan to the South and with other towns up North. Those were happier days. Then the roads grew unsafe, fell things hunted around at night and the sun was low in the sky during the day. No one dared venture far and after a few of the more daring tradesmen were attacked by Wild Men, all travel ceased. Their lives grew somber and austere, for there was naught to make a living from but livestock and farming. Crops failed, the river flooded, and people would go hungry. This was the way as long as Elona could remember.

She looked down at the man with wonder. He was fitted as a warrior, and a high-born warrior too. _My name is well known in Rohan_ , he had said, so he must be a man of some importance, and yet somehow this man of importance came to lie face down in the dirt so far from his home.

The readiness with which he spoke of death made her uneasy. It seemed as if he made peace with the idea long ago. _This would be natural for a warrior, I suppose_ , she thought, _for one must suspend fear to face battle._

Growing up in this dwindling village, Elona long ago ceased to entertain any romantic ideas and had learned to accept life as it came, thankful for her natural practicality. A woman of thirty-one, she had long ago given up on finding a husband. Half of Tharbad's young men were her distant cousins, and of the others, many were married, and others she found unpleasant or dull. Some nights, alone in her bed, Elona pondered the fact that she was still a maiden. She knew that of her friends, many engaged in trysts, even with other women's husbands, for it was understood that suitable men were few. But their insular village could keep no secrets and Elona dreaded being the subject of town gossip the next morning, so she kept to herself.

Sighing, she broke away from her reverie to look back at the traveler, _Boromir_ , she reminded herself, as he tossed and turned in the throes of another nightmare.

* * *

 _There was the clang of steel, then he was on the ground and small hands were squeezing the air out of him, he thought he would die, until his dagger met flesh and the Harad boy fell to the ground, dead. The open eyes stared back, judging, unforgiving, silent. Then the battle was over and he lay in his bed, dizzy and sick and forever changed._

 _The boy's face slowly morphed into the face of Eladar, assuring him that he did what he had to do, and then many years flew by and there was Eladar again, lying on the ground before Captain-General Boromir of Gondor. Eladar, the senior soldier of the company, who was as a second father to him, Eladar, who lay dying, eviscerated by orcs during another ambush. 'Please', he begged, 'please, I ask it of you. Otherwise it will be slow and obscene. I have taught you well,' the dying man gasped, 'to do your duty.'_

 _Boromir drew his dagger. Nausea rose. But he must. The man's innards were on the ground. 'Tell me when.'_

' _Now.'_

' _Be at peace.' In one fluid motion he drew the dagger across his own palm and then plunged it into Eladar's heart._

* * *

Elona looked at Boromir and sighed. It was the third night since the fever took him again, and he has not woken. She knew so little of this man, and yet she dreaded the end that seemed to lurk around the corner. She lit a new candle, changed the rag on his forehead, and settled in for another watchful night.

On the morning of yet another day, fifth now by count, there was a knock on her door. "What is it, Rinel?" She muttered sleepily. The last week and a half, caring for the ever-dying traveler, have worn them both out.

"His fever broke. He sleeps soundly."

Elona breathed a sigh of relief. "At last, good news! Let us rest too, now. The worst is behind him."

* * *

A grey light met his eyes as he slowly lifted his lids and looked about. At first he did not know where he was, and slowly it came to him: Tharbad, his illness, Elona, and the loss of his horse. Boromir felt a pang of sadness. His horse has become a close companion and he could only hope the horse has made it back to his native Rohan safely.

While he still felt quite weak, the fever was gone from his body and there was a freshness in his mind that he has not felt in a long time. He regretted the time lost, but now that he was on the way to recovery, he should be able to go out to search for Imladris again. Mayhap the people of Tharbad even knew something that could help him on his way, and he had ample time to ask. Boromir knew well enough that recovery after a fever was not to be forced, and it would be another week or two before he was travel-worthy again.

"I hear you are awake!" Elona smiled sunnily as she waltzed into the room. "How do you feel?"

"Well the fever appears to be gone, although I am still weary. How many days has it been?"

"This is the fifth day after the fever returned. It broke in the night. Here, let me fetch you some tea. You must be thirsty." And before Boromir could say a word of thanks, she waltzed back out. Boromir stared after her for a while. Only now he had noticed that she was indeed a beautiful woman. Elona had an open kindness combined with a strong will and sharp wit, which made her pleasant company. Her brother Rinel, three years younger, was of a more surly disposition and spoke little, but Boromir could see he was a sure and honest man. There were no elders or children in the house however, and Boromir could not help but wonder how it was that neither of the two had any other family.

As the days passed, Boromir grew stronger. The cough still plagued him but his fever has not returned. The only problem was that there was little for him to do. They still insisted on treating him as a guest and would not allow him to help them in their work, and to be honest, Boromir was somewhat relieved, for he knew nothing of herding cattle or farming the land, but he felt guilty for having been a burden. His evenings were spent talking with Rinel and Elona, who seemed to be glad of some company. They told him of the way things have been going in Tharbad, and Boromir understood that for a long time, they have been an insular community, struggling to survive but keeping loyal to each other. They knew little of what went on in the outside world, aside from feeling that something evil was afoot. When they asked him for tidings, he chose his words carefully. Boromir felt a pang of guilt at shattering their blissful ignorance, and yet soon they may have to fight as the shadow drew near. Better they know and prepare as they may.

"There is a village council tonight," Rinel suggested. "If you feel well enough, it would be good for you to attend. The whole village should hear the situation with… uh…Mordor, as you call it, and perhaps someone else may know of Rivendell."


End file.
